#Renault captur dci review manual

Though surely designed to appeal to women, I can appreciate the modern lines of the body, that already iconic Renault nose design, the funky chrome-embellished scallop shape in the side, the ‘floating’ roof in contrasting black to the mainly metallic blue paintwork. With fears about the Captur’s performance set aside, I was able to embrace its other charms more willingly. This could be a happy association after all.īest of all, the Eco switch remains off – as it surely will for our six months together – whenever I drive the car, so I don’t have to worry about resetting it every time I get in. Suddenly that thrummy goodness was unleashed, revealing a surprising level of torque and response, at least above 2500rpm. Exactly why you’d want to do that to such a small engine I dare not imagine, but to my delight turning it off transformed the little Renault Captur.

#Renault captur dci review manual

An examination of the owner’s manual revealed a switch – inconveniently located down between the front seats, obscured by the handbrake – labelled ‘Eco’.Īs you might imagine, this dulls the throttle and power output. The lack of performance was chronic this car simply struggled to get out of its own way.īut then, enlightenment. As I racked up the first hundred kays getting used to my new environment, a deepening dread took over. As I drove away from Renault’s collection centre there was a reassuring thrum from the engine alright, just like that yellow Mighty Boy of old, but there was also a disconcerting lack of forward motion. Could such a pipsqueak engine really be all about “thrummy goodness”?įirst impressions were not all good. Sure, I’d read and listened to the ravings of Ponch and Byron about their beloved turbo triples, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been out of step with some of my colleagues over trends in motoring. So it was with some trepidation that I approached my new long-termer, Renault’s frankly girl-friendly Captur mini-SUV with its 898cc triple, even though it does boast a turbocharger just like Porsche’s even mightier 917 Can-Am cars that revolutionised racing in the early 1970s. It was certainly more boy than man, and not so mighty.

And my abiding memory of that car – other than the fact it was incredibly impractical for a ute and incapable of carrying anything more than an attache case and a toothbrush – was that, while it sounded like a mighty flat-10 Porsche 917 hammering down the Mulsanne at Le Mans in 1970 as you snapped through the gears, it performed more like a strangled Beetle towing a horse float. My one and only previous experience of a three-cylinder car was the rather obscure and curiously named Suzuki Mighty Boy back in the 1980s.